No Place For A Hero
by antiassasinguy
Summary: New Year's Eve, 2020. A wounded man ascends Teito Tower, looking down the barrel of a loaded gun. His "mission" is complete, his body is broken and yet, the only thing his mind seems to stray towards ... is them. AU. Original Character. Mature Content.


Disclaimer: I do not own Sekirei

Summary: New Year's Eve, 2020. A wounded man ascends Teito Tower, looking down the barrel of a gun. His "mission" is complete, his body is broken … and all he can think about is them. AU

 **Prologue: Where It All Ends, When It All Began**

It was hard to breathe after your rib-caged had been battered from eight different directions. The young man took his time with his breathing cycle, trying to get its regularity rounded in such a manner that it didn't cause him pain. Easier said than done, really. A deep gash upon his right palm, accompanied by bloody, bruised (and likely _broken_ ) knuckles on both sets of hands; a cut on his lip and uneven swelling on both sides of his face; a singed set of eyebrows, cuts on his neck that looked akin to a mauling attempt by a mountain lion cut short before the ugly part; the limp that said he, in all likelihood, probably had a series of displaced or—more likely—broken bones, the cuboid and the talus probably among them, compounding with the agony of his already-considerable measure of exhaustion.

Not to mention the light, classical music from the speakers that sounded like it had more in common with a set of rusted metal fingernails to wet chalkboard than it did a melody. He shook his head, propping his large body against the smooth surface, before cursing as he felt himself slipping. He mumbled obscenities with his elbow painfully caught onto one of the elevator handles, causing him to instinctively stab his right heel down to maintain balance … only to find the sheer absurdity of the decision apparent as sharp pain spread through it. Chuckling darkly to himself, he wondered how all those detectives in those films were able to keep themselves calm and composed making their march to the Yakuza Headquarters or the office of the corrupt police official, gun in hand and backup on the way.

Pain was a reminder that not all stories were so simple, so _neat_.

That there were some things that you could bring with you … but many more that you had to leave behind.

He tossed the walkie-talkie onto the floor, its weight finally causing him enough annoyance to relinquish his grip upon it … not that it mattered, anyway. Not with that huge crack in it; more than likely caused by the previous mess down below. It was useless, broken; nothing more than dead weight at this point. He didn't even know why he'd brought it with him, coming up here, going through all that. Perhaps because he'd wasted just over nine-thousand yen picking the set out and didn't want to see it go to waste.

But it didn't matter. No one would answer from the other side anyway, even if it _did_ work.

He hoped it would stay that way.

His thoughts strayed to his …

 _Friends._

There were no two ways about it: they were his friends. Some of the closest that he'd made in such a short span of time, in such a precious few droplets of moments that he wondered at times if the whole experience was real. If he, indeed, was riding up the elevator on New Year's Eve, minutes from midnight, to face down the most powerful man in Japan with nothing more than broken bones, haggard breath and a body that should be strapped to a stretcher before anything that didn't involve breathing and lying down in the same sentence. He tapped the back of his head against the window, those strayed thoughts finally finding a latch, a hold …

He turned to the bright skyline of the city, seeing his reflection for the first time since he'd left his ho—no, not his home, never his home. It was his domicile, his residence, but that place was never a home. The face that stared back was someone he hadn't seen before. He barely recognized the man, his half-reflection staring back, aged beyond the twenty-one years he had been placed on his earth. Sullen, rugged eyes had replaced youthful brown. His skin was flawed and creased where it was one full and curved. A body that had been large, round and unrefined was now the opposite: battered, edged … _dented_ , like iron that had seen hot and cold, strikes and thuds. It is a shape that he hadn't dreamed of since his days doing judo back in high school, being thrown on the mat more times than he returned the favor.

It was quite ironic that all this chaos had started with punishment for a judo throw.

One rabid patient, one throw and an irritated head nurse that saw that punishment was in order in the form of a schedule shift and an early lunch break to accommodate for it.

It was faint, that memory, but he distinctly remembered the aroma of crushed almonds and the smell of old books. The break room, sitting alone and finishing up his lunch, only to see an oddity that shouldn't have been there, stepping into his room, the first to draw him into a world he couldn't conceive even in the most absurd of realities.

But she wasn't the last step into his.

Not by a long shot.

With any luck, he wouldn't see any of them again. It was better that way.

Toyotama, Kazehana …

 _Uzume_.

The lift stopped with the ring of a bell, slightly jolting with the sudden, halting motion. He'd reached his destination. This was the highest accessible level in the building.

The doors opened, revealing a pristine, wide room—no, not a room, a floor, a whole flat, a _penthouse_ , stretching out and filling a space that was at least ten times what he could afford. He stepped out onto pristine marble, walking some few meters before ascending a short flight of stairs, getting a full view of the wealth and indulgence that the master of the house held in his fingertips, only for everything that he knew of the man to instantly fall into place at a glance.

The place looked as though it was caught between old age and the abandonment of adolescence. A mix of childish playthings and displays of pop art.

There was a loft above and around, set about twelve, maybe fourteen feet above, giving the whole place the feeling of some arena, an atrium that was the center of attention. Another glance informed him of the presence of an indoor stream, the light sound of two rushing waterfalls heard behind a set of glass partitions, beautifully touched up by vines and plants of exotic make. There were raised pillars lining the stream where it made a moat on each end of the room, a few bonsai plants set upon each of them, as tidy as the rest of the room. Maintained and proper, as they should be.

That only made the other additions all the more jarring.

There was a poster—no, a _painting_ —of the original _Ultraman_ film emblazoned like a tribute, modified to suit the owner's sensibilities, the colors and the edges of the subject emboldened and darkened while the rest of the _tokusatsu_ legend's body was given a bluish hue in place of his usual grey form. Around the room, there were similar tributes. Tacky and bold, they littered the place in equal authority of their guardianship as the bonsai trees. Scale statues, at least a foot taller than his own stocky frame, were set in a manner that clashed with the foreign aesthetic, but he would be a fool not to recognize _Kamen Rider_ upon a glance. Eight statues. Eight statues of eight different _Kamen Riders_ stood on raised pedestals reaching up to his waist, each of them pointing their fists and their glares to the middle of the room, where there was a large couch, several armchairs and a metallic table that seemed to be built right into the floor. The walls, a thick, onyx, were decorated with paintings of icons of Japan's rich pop culture history, each painting more glaring than the next.

The _Kamen Riders_ of past, _Spider-Man_ , _Flashman_ , _Maskman_ , the _Ultramans_ _Zoffy, Seven_ …

Placed and arranged in the same manner as the previously-mentioned pop art works.

'You know, that was the _one_ studio that I could never buy out,' a voice chimed in from the side, sounding as though he was beginning a lecture. The young man didn't even bother to look, his eyes focused on the painting of _Spider-Man_ , his head cocked to the side and peeking through a spread set of fingers. 'I told them to name their price, I promised them that I'd get their kids through to Tokyo U or whatever university that they wanted to send their little scamps or their grandchildren to and they looked me in the eye and pushed the checkbook _back_ in my direction. They told me that for no price, for no return would they trade-in their ability to bestow _child-like wonder_ to the people of Japan. That there couldn't possibly be a price that could … _equate itself_ with the ability and most of all, the _chance_ to spin the imagination of children and weave tales in such a way that even old men and women _wish_ they were young again. They live up to the stories they tell … and every year since that day I have sent them a check to fill out any legal amount they could wish, just so they can _continue_ to tell those stories. To live up to your word, to the requirements of integrity, is the essence of _sentai_ and _tokusatsu_.'

As the man finished, the bloodied, battered young man turned his stoic gaze to see the eccentric form of the man that stood next to him, admiring the displays as if he, too, was gazing upon them the first time. There was a twinkle in his eyes behind those thick, rimmed glasses and that wild mane of white hair had only seemed to have grown more unkempt since his last appearance. His face said nothing of youth or age. There was an energy to him that was contagious, for everyone. A bounce in every motion likened similarities more suited to that of a hyperactive toddler than that of a man that was pushing his forties.

But no sane man would have thought that this so-called game was an adequate course of action by any moral or ethical means.

Not after all this.

Therefore, Minaka Hiroto was _no sane man_.

That pointed chin, that

'I've personally always thought of it as cheap entertainment,' the young man replied, shrugging nonchalantly … and painfully. 'Formulaic, bad acting, cheap props and effects and complete and utter ignorance of what tells a good story beyond good guys winning in the end.'

'Isn't that what it's always about, though?' Minaka countered, chortling as he turned on his heel to face his bloodied visitor. 'Good beating evil? Injustice and inequality being stomped out like a fire that would otherwise burn down a field of wheat that would feed the people. The triumph and belief that everything we do in this world can be for the greater good of our fellow man. Who are _we_ to question that intention?'

'If the story's horrible, then the only thing that's holding it up is the perception of the audience.'

A cough echoed in the wide space, followed by an unsteady shake and a slight keel over.

He was long past his limit.

'Dear me,' Minaka tut-tutted, clicking his tongue. 'I would have thought that you possessed the courtesy to at least close your mouth while doing that.'

The tone of the man's voice was so familiar it almost made him want to apologize.

Having been surrounded by doctors for the past year, there were certain habits that were hard to kick out. Kowtowing was a regular part of his job … not that he needed to; unlike most perceptions of the specialists in the line of medicine, the practitioners of medicine that he was acquainted with were quite amicable and approachable. He liked to think it got him a few points with them, regardless of its necessity. The Head of MBI, even with all his eccentricities, was likely no different.

But to him, he would not so much as bend.

'I can get you some medical attention, if you'd like,' Minaka started again, 'but you'd probably rather not.'

'Trusting another one of your goons with a knife isn't high on my wish-list, no.'

'I had nothing to do with that whatsoever,' he huffed—almost childishly, in fact. 'Blood and bruises … so, so messy. It'd be neater if I had a hand on it. Less blood, less … mess. It's all so disgustingly inappropriate. No, no, it's all too inappropriate. Nothing compelling at all about it. Look at you … nothing at all what the audiences want. So … so coarse, unrefined, nothing like what the people want a villain to be. _Class-less_ ; you shouldn't even be the villain of this piece. You're … you should be one of those oafs hitting the floor when the heroine marches in in one _hit_. Not even a side character of a mob character … a thematic stepping stone for those that the story is about.'

He couldn't help but laugh.

'Am I now?'

He wasn't prepared for the strike to the side of his jaw … or the knuckle to his sternum. For someone so thin and so much older—so past his prime by assumption—Minaka Hiroto was fast, strong … and _trained_. The strikes had hit where he was already soft, tender and vulnerable. The hitch in his foot was caught in the unsettling of his balance, causing him more pain as he attempted to realign himself with gravity, with the floor. His bearings were lost in the assault.

But Minaka wasn't done.

An elbow to the back of his head.

A knee into his sternum to catch his fall.

Trained. Most definitely trained.

Men with time and money usually utilized both, after all. It was not a stretch to see where he had clocked a significant share of his hours.

He gasped and cried out, hitting the marble surface of the floor, dazed … petrified. His eyes were watery and his right shoulder—already damaged—felt as though it had been violently shifted out of place, no doubt from being the unwilling landing cushion for the full weight of his considerable bulk. Hissing and gasping for air, he felt as though he was choking on his own voice, sharp pains shooting up his arm as the weight shifted from his shoulder to his knees.

He was not allowed the dignity to be on his feet.

A kick to his ribs had him rolling onto his back, his voice finally finding his throat in a pained cry. Splayed over the floor, his eyes staring up at the titanic painting of _Ultraman_ and the approaching footsteps of Minaka Hiroto, he knew the end was near. It was funny how life always seemed to throw that curve ball one's way.

Especially when one's name was—

'Are you prepared to be served justice … _Higashi Rohan?!_ '

And the man named Rohan groaned as he rolled back on his side, shifting his weight onto his ankle, biting down the pain and trying to stand. It didn't take, of course. He was already turned inside out making his way here. Even with his experience at enduring punishment … there were thresholds. He'd unwittingly crossed one marching up here without even suspecting why Minaka Hiroto, the singular entity at the top of MBI, had invited him up for a spell.

After all those words.

After all that hurt.

He should have seen it from the start.

And yet, despite the only thing he could smell was the scent of cherry blossoms, kissing the tip of his nose …

Taking him back to where it began.


End file.
